Resurrection
by Ophium
Summary: Everyone has a take on how the Inseparables met and grew to become the notorious force of nature they were known to be. This is mine. Set a few months after Savoy, pre-season 1.
1. Chapter 1

**Resurrection**

~§~

René closed his eyes, trying to capture the warm touch of the sun against his skin. Even though it was the middle of the summer and Paris was plagued by a bout of insufferable heat, he still could not feel it.

It had been months since he had felt anything other than the cold. It was as if his bones had turned to ice and it was, slowly but steadily, seeping into the rest of his body, consuming him and stealing all warmth from his grasp. One day, he was sure, he would wake up and be nothing more than a pile of melting red snow on the dirt.

Red snow, that once-pristine white purity stained by the sins of his failures. Blood…blood everywhere…

"Hey! Wake up!" a rough voice pulled him from his reverie. "You're needed. It's one of them new recruits."

René snapped back to reality, chiding himself for having allowed his thoughts to wander off again. "What happened?" he asked, his mind thankfully following his eyes as he watched two men carrying a third and depositing him in one of the empty beds. The left side of his face was covered in blood.

"Porthos. Again," one of the men supplied with a smirk. "Who else?"

René shook his head, setting to work cleaning the ugly wound on the man's forehead. He understood the need to test all the new men arriving daily at the garrison before they became recruits. He just wished that Porthos would refrain from beating half of them to death.

~§~

Olivier's hands shook as he raised his cup from the table. It was his fourth...sixth...not nearly enough for him to have completely lost count of how much he'd downed already. Not nearly enough to drown that persistent ache inside his chest.

It was still too soon for the warmth of the wine to quench the coldness inside his heart. He feared there wasn't enough wine in the world to make that happen.

The rough clay clattered against the wooden table as he set the empty cup down, his hand closing around the bottle. It felt too light in his hand. Empty. So soon. "Another," he whispered as the young servant girl passed by his table.

Startled eyes gazed upon him, green like _hers_ , making him recoil from the sight. "Monsieur?"

"Never mind," he hissed, throwing a few coins on the table. Suddenly the tavern felt too stifling, filled with rancid smells and crowded with too many breathing people and more than a few ghosts.

Olivier stumbled outside, surprised to see the sun shining. He couldn't recall when he had entered the tavern, but had an inkling that it had not been that bright outside before. Had the night truly passed without him noticing?

The light assaulted his eyes, stabbing his brain like a horde of vicious crows. His stomach rebelled, a tidal wave of nausea that left him vaguely wondering what exactly would be coming up since he had forgotten to eat for so long.

Olivier found himself on his knees, puking something red that looked like blood but smelled like vinegar. ' _Well, that was a waste of coin_ ," the former Comte de la Fère thought to himself.

He was still in such an undignified position when a gloved hand appeared in his line of sight. The Comte's first instinct was to reach for his sword and defend himself against such an intrusion. Months spent on the road after fleeing his lands had taught him that violence was as sure and certain as winter rain.

The gloved hand, however, was not demanding his purse nor his life, only offering assistance. And a good thing that was, because Olivier was pretty certain that he had somehow misplaced his sword.

"You are _too_ kind," he found himself saying, with no real emotion behind his words. It wasn't a comment on the man's gesture, it was merely an observation on what Olivier thought to be wrong with current events. No one was _that_ kind towards a complete stranger. An inebriated one at that.

"You left this behind," the man offered, pulling Olivier up with one hand while the other presented his missing weapon. A few years older than the Comte himself, his benefactor had a deep scar marking his left cheek that gave his face no small amount of character. He was wearing a uniform of sorts, a leathery blue cape draped across his shoulder and back. "It is a finely-crafted blade," the man went on. "I would advise you to keep a closer eye on it from here on."

Olivier was about to open his mouth to politely tell the man to mind his own business when a woman's scream cut through the empty street.

The rush of blood to his head cleared Olivier's mind enough for him to grab his sword from the man's hand and rush towards the sound of the distressed calls. Turning a corner at full run, he easily stumbled across the source of screams. The scene that greeted him made his insides churn.

Two men were holding onto a struggling young woman, a sharp dagger pressed against her throat while a third went through her bag. Despite her fear, she was holding one shoe in her hand, wielding it like it was the deadliest of weapons. A fourth man, lying senseless on the ground, spoke of her prowess with that shoe.

"You would do well to start running now," Olivier called out, pulling his sword from its scabbard and effectively attracting the attention of her attackers. "Unless you wish to provide me with some much-needed entertainment," he added with a dry smile.

"Can't ya count? There's fou-" One of the men began, then stopped, upon spying his fallen mate still on the ground. "There's three 'f us, ya nimwitt!" he offered with a vicious glint in his eyes.

"Yes, I've noticed," the Comte said, advancing on the one closer to him, shattering his nose with the pommel of his sword. "I was hoping for more, but you will suffice."

The remaining two had blades of their own, but little to no skill to wield them. The fight was over before Olivier could even break a sweat. Pity. "Are you well, Mademoiselle?"

"Bonacieux, Madame Bonacieux," the young woman supplied with a nod, the tremor in her voice belying the fire in her blue eyes. She ran an unsteady hand through her disheveled auburn hair before restoring her shoe to its rightful place. "I am in your debt, Monsieurs."

The use of the plural when he thought himself alone made Olivier look around. Sure enough, the stranger who had returned his sword was standing a few feet away, an unfired pistol in his hand.

"Would you be requiring assistance returning to your home, Madame Bonacieux?" the stranger offered.

The young woman smiled, the terror of the situation quickly fading away, specially with all four of her attackers moaning and bleeding on the ground. "My husband would a have a proper fit if I were returned home by the Captain of His Majesty's Musketeers, now wouldn't he?" she said with a nervous chuckle. "I live nearby, it won't be a bother. Once more, I thank you for your help, Monsieur..?"

Olivier paused, realizing that she was inquiring his name. An easy enough question, up until a few months back, but one that left him currently speechless. The man he used to be was no more, killed by the noose around the neck of someone else. "Athos," he rushed to say, knowing it was impolite to keep a lady waiting for so long. "My name is Athos, at your service, Madame."

Wordlessly, the two men helped her collect her scattered belongings before watching her go on her way.

"My name is Treville. Captain of the Musketeers."

Olivier took a second to realize that the other man was addressing him. "So I heard," he acknowledged, making no effort at further introductions other than the name he had given before.

"You are good with a sword," the other man went on. "His Majesty's Musketeers could do with a man of your skill. We are currently taking new recruits. Why don't you come by the garrison tomorrow and give it a try?"

Olivier looked at the man at length, trying to read his true intentions. Nothing but honesty and honor shone back through the older man's blue gaze. It was a rare thing those days, one Athos couldn't seem to find even when facing his own reflection in a looking glass.

"Very well," Olivier simply said. Violence was violence. He might as well get paid for it.

Treville turned to leave, stopping in his tracks before turning the corner. "And Athos...do show up sober."

~§~

Porthos eyed the new recruits of the day with a glint in his eye. Someday soon, some of them would be his brothers-in-arms, but, currently, they were nothing but grub to his fists.

There had been too many conflicting thoughts inside his troubled mind of lately and, as he had found out very early in his life, violence was the perfect way for him to deal with those ideas and doubts.

Back at the Court of Miracles, his taste and ability for breaking people's faces had soon eclipsed the color of his skin and earned him no small amount of reputation. Joining France's Infantry had only added to that.

But when he had joined the Musketeers, Porthos had striven to leave that belligerent behavior behind. The King's men were gentlemen, most of them highborn and he figured that he would have to leave the brute behind if he was to become one of them. He was wrong, of course. His fists and street smarts had been more than welcomed by the leader of the Musketeers.

To be given free rein to do his worst as a way to test the new men was like, he imagined, for a woman to put off her corset after a long day confined by its constraints. In a way, he almost pitied the men about to face him. _Almost_.

The reason behind such an influx of recruits was very much present in the minds of all that had gathered to watch the tryouts of the day. The loss that the Musketeers had suffered was still too fresh, and the fact that there was nothing to be done to hold accountable those responsible, was weighing heavily on the whole regiment. The Spanish were the most probable suspect, but even that was but a mere supposition. Dead men, after all, told no tales.

Porthos himself had only joined the Musketeers a scant few months before the tragedy happened. There hadn't been sufficient time for him to form any type of deeper bonds with the men serving with him, not like the bond he had left behind at the Court, with Charon and Flea. Still, it was hard to not feel the loss when all those around him fell into such deep grief and melancholy.

The Captain himself had disappeared for close to a week when it happened, grieving in private for the men he had sent on a mission and who had never returned. A full company of twenty-two men, dead, murdered, in the border with Savoy. Twenty-two men, and not one survivor.

The remembrance alone left him in a foul mood, a coldness in his soul that he could not shake. "Alrigh' then," he growled menacingly at the waiting line of men. "Who's first?"

~§~

René scrubbed furiously at his hands, willing the red away. Water was scarce, with the Seine running almost dry under the heat wave, and the small basin he had been granted was already filthy with old blood.

"You will end up rubbing all of your skin away if you continue so."

The Captain's deep tones snapped him to attention, a habit he still could not rid himself of, even after months spent away from the regiment. "Captain. What brings you here?" he asked, carefully eyeing the older man. "Are you injured?"

Treville gave a sharp shake of his head. "I am perfectly well, Aramis. How are you?"

René recoiled from the name, tasting phantom blood in his mouth. "Aramis is no more, Sir," he reminded the other man, brown eyes cast down, gazing upon his stained hands. "He died in Savoy, along with all the others, remember?"

The Captain sighed deeply, the same as he always did whenever this conversation arose between them. "I've kept your name safe from all records. No one knows you were there," Treville reminded him in turn. "It's time for you to resume your duties, Aramis."

"I can fulfill my duties from here," he hissed, his tone bordering on insubordination. He was content working in the sick quarters, helping those wounded in battles he could no longer face; that he should not face. It was the least he could do. "Please, allow me to serve my King and country from here."

"Your place is not here," Treville said firmly. "You are neither a surgeon nor a trained physician!"

"I'm not a soldier either," René whispered, his voice shattering at the painful admission. "Not anymore."

"You are hiding," Treville accused, making René flush red under his pallor. "Like a coward."

He stood frozen, watching the Captain turn and leave. The man's words should've hurt more, should've made him angry and eager to defend his honor. He could feel nothing.

Treville was losing what little patience he had left to deal with his broken soldier; René was all too aware of that. His time at the garrison was coming to an end.

~§~

Years of soldiering served Treville well as he exited the sick quarters. From looking at him, no one would've guessed the anger and frustration bubbling under his composed surface. His guilt, that he had endeavored to tame months ago, though he feared it would never fade.

Not that it should.

Watching Aramis, who held such promise and had been such a skilled soldier before, turn into a pale shade of the man he was before, of the man he was supposed to be, turned Treville's insides. It was his fault that so many had died in the woods outside Savoy. It was his fault that Aramis chose to spend his days hiding in the sick quarters, surrounded by the wounded and dying.

It was also his fault he had been forced to deceive the young man to ensure his safety, even after surviving the massacre. Making him believe that his Spanish blood - and the fact that no one else survived - would lead others to think him a spy.

It hurt his heart to cast those vile doubts over such a dedicated servant of France, but if the Cardinal or the Duke of Savoy were ever to learn that one Musketeer had survived... Aramis' life would be forfeit. The young man alone could prove that the group of Musketeers had been sent on a training assignment, not on a war mission; he alone had the ability to figure out that, whatever language the attackers had used -if they had spoken at all- it hadn't been one that he was as familiar with as French.

If any of those facts were brought to light, death would seek out the broken musketeer like an eager mistress. And from what Treville could see in Aramis' eyes, he was sure the young man would welcome her.

Treville had failed to protect twenty of his men. One had deserted and was, therefore, out of his grasp to offer protection. The one that remain, however... he would do his best to save, even when the man didn't seemed to want to save himself.

~§~

Athos watched the big, dark-skinned man laugh as he easily fought a man half his size. His opponent, try as he might, seemed unable to land a single blow and was currently being used to mop the floor of the garrison stables.

It seemed that, as part of being accepted into the regiment, it was necessary to beat this man in free combat. So far, none of the men Athos had watched had even come close to succeeding.

From a balcony above, Treville, the man he had met the day before, watched with a close eye the events unfolding in the yard. He looked...disappointed.

The big Musketeer was skilled, that much was easy for all to see, even if his fighting style was a bit...unconventional. Even as he watched, the Musketeer picked the other man up, like he was nothing but a sack of potatoes, before twirling around and sending him flying against a pile of hay.

Porthos was the name the gathered crowd was shouting. Goliath would have been a more appropriate name, for all that the others had tried to beat him and failed. Athos, however, wasn't one to believe in impossible foes.

"Next!"

Raising from his seat at the wooden table, Athos stretched and bent sideways. His head was still throbbing from all the drinking of the past day, but he had fought worse under poorer conditions. _Well,_ he thought as the Musketeer loomed over him, _perhaps not worse_.

"Gentlemen's terms?" Porthos asked with a toothy smirk, his tone warning his adversary that it would be no such thing.

"Of course," Athos agreed, mockingly bowing to his opponent. Had he blinked while doing so, he would've failed to see Porthos' booted foot rising up to meet his face.

The former Comte smiled. He was going to enjoy this.

Raising both hands, Athos grabbed Porthos' leg and, instead of pushing it down, pulled it further up, hoping to unbalance the larger man. Porthos stumbled back, but not before sending a closed fist flying out towards Athos' head.

The blow was merely glancing, but still Athos' ears were left ringing. He took a step back, regaining his balance, happy to realize that the other man was not holding back. Had he been struck by the full force of that blow, Athos was sure he would have been knocked out.

The other man was smirking, waiting for him to attack. Athos wasted no time in indulging him. Figuring that a man that size would have a higher center of gravity, Athos raced towards him, lowering his body to hit Porthos against his waist, rather than his chest.

They both fell against one of the barn's columns with twin grunts of pain, almost splintering the wood in half. Neither gave the other quarter, as they rolled on the ground, each man trying to get the upper hand, each landing the occasional hit.

Athos lost track of time, only to find himself with lungs burning at the exertion, sweat dripping into his eyes and Porthos, sitting astride his waist, fist pulled back to land the final blow. There was a feral look in his eyes, a complete abandonment to violence that made Athos sigh in relief. Finally, he had met someone who would put him out of his misery.

"Enough!" a commanding voice called out. Treville.

The change that overcame the larger man's eyes was immediate. Gone was the murderous look, replaced by pure gentleness. A bear, turned into a cub on command. It was uncanny. "You're good!" Porthos offered, quickly moving to his feet. He offered Athos a hand up, along with an honest smile.

Athos looked up, confused. He had lost, hadn't he? Still, he took the other man's hand, feeling himself being pulled up with such strength that it almost tore his arm from the socket.

He looked around, expecting to see mockery and laughter in the faces of the men watching, but there was neither to be found. Yes, there was amusement, but also respect for what had just happened.

"I don't understand," he confessed.

"The idea was not to beat our Porthos here," Treville explained, leaving it implied that there weren't that many who could. "Only to last long enough to convince me that, with proper training, one day you will. Welcome to the His Majesty's Musketeers, Athos."

Athos took the hand that the man was extending to him, giving it a firm shake, not really sure if he should be happy or disappointed about such a turn of events.

~§~

Treville scrubbed at his beard, knowing that he needed to stop finding excuses to return to the papers on his desk, wishing with all his heart that maybe they had sorted themselves out in his absence. He had twenty two dead soldiers to replace and the King's _carte blanche_ to choose who he pleased as a recruit, but that was as far as his good luck went.

Back when the Musketeers' regiment had been formed, three years before, Treville had been able to handpick the best of the best from the rest of France's regiments, but, being a group of limited numbers, there had been a few fine soldiers left behind.

They weren't however, enough. Hence the decision to open the doors to any Frenchman able to hold his own in a fight. But, as Treville had quickly realized, _thinking_ themselves able and _being_ able, were two very different things when it came to battle.

So far, he had about fifteen new recruits. Sixteen, with the recent addition of Athos. He needed six more. And then there was all the paperwork from the other sixteen to attend to.

Athos had been a happy coincidence. Treville had not recognized him at first, thinking him just another drunkard wandering aimlessly through the streets of Paris, but the sword he had carelessly left behind carried the mark of the Comte de la Fère, an old aristocratic family from Pinon. Treville had certainly recognized that.

Either the man carrying that sword was a thief, or one of the Comte's two sons. The bearing of the man Treville had followed from that tavern, even emptying his stomach on his knees, had made it fairly obvious that he was no thief.

The old Comte, Athos' father, had been an accomplished swordsman and Treville had hoped that he had instilled in his sons the same love for the art of war. He had not been wrong.

Pushing the door to his office open, the Captain was surprised to find papers on the floor. He was sure he had left all the windows closed when he left, so there was no wind to be blamed for such a mess.

He drew his pistol from the belt as he took a good look inside. There were papers scattered everywhere, his desk in disarray. Even the locked cabinet where he kept his files was gaping opened, all of the contents spilling out.

It looked like a storm had passed through, leaving nothing behind but that unholy mess. Someone had been there.

A clatter of noise coming from the armory called the Captain's attention. With so many new men coming and going, there were plenty of unfamiliar faces around, but he was certain that the three men currently sneaking around the garrison's armory had no business being there. "Are you gentlemen lost?" he asked, the gentle click of his pistol disrupting the silence that had fallen across the room.

Startled, the men turned, obviously not having realized his return. The fact that they hadn't left someone to stand watch spoke highly of their stupidity.

Treville opened his mouth to raise the alarm when he realized what the men had been so focused on that they had not heard him coming. The shout died on his lips as a fear as cold as the icy winter took hold of his heart.

It was not the pistols in their hands, for that was hardly a sight to instill fear in the experienced Captain.

No, it was the lit fuse, leading straight to the pile of gunpowder barrels at the corner of the armory storage, that made his blood freeze in his veins.

The men followed his gaze and, rather than fight, turned to run, knowing that they had only a few seconds to escape the blast. Treville fired his weapon, feeling the satisfaction of seeing blood explode from one of the men's legs before he, too, started running for his life.

* * *

To be continued, soon

AN: this story is already finished and will be around 4 or 5 chapters long. A new chapter will be added every day. To Laurie_bug, at LJ, my most sincere thank you for beta-ing this story so perfectly and at lightning speed. Any remaining mistakes are my fault, because I'm a terrible tinker ;)


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Wow! This fandom is truly amazing and very, very welcoming! I confess I wasn't expecting such a reaction, and I thank you all for it. To everyone who has comment, favorite and is following this story, thank you! You are the best!

* * *

~§~

Porthos opened the door and peeked inside. One of the beds further back was occupied by a man that he could vaguely remember punching earlier in the day. Cerveaux, the physician who worked at the garrison, was nowhere in sight. In his stead, Porthos could only see a boy, head of dark curls bent over a large book, reading by the window. He had no idea that the physician had taken an apprentice at the garrison.

"Umm," he cleared his throat, trying to get the boy's attention. The 'boy' startled, revealing a bearded face that belonged to a man who looked more to be close to Porthos' own age, instead of the youngster he had confused him for. It did not escape his attention the way the man's hand had flown to his waist, as if to grab a sword that wasn't there.

A physician with soldier instincts.

Suddenly, Porthos knew all too well who it was. Garrisons, he had quickly discovered, were filled with soldiers that turned into gossiping old ladies in their idle time, and everyone in the regiment had heard all the tales of Aramis, the Captain's unofficial protégé.

If one was to believe what was said, this Aramis person was able to shoot the wings off a fly from several feet away with his pistol and hit the eye of an enemy from half a lieue away with his musket.

And if those stories were to be believed, people wondered why such a remarkable marksman would've secluded himself from all soldering tasks. There, the theories were aplenty.

Some said he was the Captain's bastard son, even though the age difference between the two men was too small to make such a thing even possible. They said he was kept hidden and in training to, one day, step into his father's place as Captain of the Musketeers himself.

Others said that, given his looks, he was probably a Spanish spy, being kept under close watch by Treville, in hopes of be used as a bargaining chip in the event of a future war between the two countries.

Some were sure he was a survivor of Savoy, even though all knew too well that there had been none. They said he was kept hidden from the others because his mind had been broken during the massacre. Wishful thinking, Porthos thought that one was, because the enormity of an entire contingent lost was just too painful to bear.

Some of the newest Musketeers even said he was a ghost, not truly flesh and blood, haunting the garrison's grounds in search for redemption.

Porthos believed none of the stories, knowing half of them were a product of bored minds and the rest were pure fabrications to explain what no one seemed to know.

The few facts that Porthos knew were that he remembered seeing the man around the garrison _before_ the massacre and that he had seemed to vanish some time before Savoy. The man's reasons to be stuck in these dark rooms were his own. And the Captain's, he supposed.

"Can I help you with something?"

"How's he doin'?" he asked with a slight nod to the sleeping man.

"He'll live," the other man said, closing his book. "Even if he'll be reminded of you every time he looks at his nose in a mirror. Some would call it improvement."

Porthos threw his head back, giving a hearty laugh, wincing as he did so.

"That was not why you came here."

The big Musketeer scratched his head carefully, looking at his fingertips when they came away reddish. "Cracked my head in one of them fights, it would seem," he offered sheepishly. "C'ptain sent me over to get it looked at, but..." he stopped, remembering that the physician was away. "I can come back later."

"Nonsense," the other man offered with a reassuring smile. "I assure you that my needlework is almost as good as his-"

"Needlework?!" Porthos yelped, taking a step back, ready to flee. He must've paled, because the other man was suddenly at his side, guiding him towards a chair. "No needles!" Porthos warned the smaller man, planning to make his escape as soon as his legs stopped shaking. He hated needles!

"Let me have a look, and then we'll decide on that," the other man said, his voice as gentle as his fingers as he combed through Porthos' curly hair in search of the wound. "I don't think we were ever introduced," he went on, letting out an enthusiastic 'Aha!' when he found the cut. "I am René and you...are in luck! No stitches are required!" he announced, turning to fetch clean water.

Porthos' eyes followed him around the room, confused. If there was one thing that all the stories seemed to agree about, it was that the man's name was Aramis, not René. "I thought your name was Aramis," he asked, point-blank, as the man pressed a cloth to his skull.

The other man tensed, involuntarily pressing the cloth harder against the wound. Porthos hissed, realizing he had no one else to blame for that other than his big mouth. "I apologize," he added quickly. "'s none of my business."

The other man gathered his composure quickly, even if his smile wasn't as free as before. "No, it's no problem. René is my Christian name," he said, opening a jar of awful smelling salve. "Aramis was...a sort of misunderstanding, actually," he added with a sad smile.

"I won't ask about that, if you don't put that foul smellin' stuff on my hair," Porthos pleaded, hands raised in surrender.

René made a sympathetic face. After all, he too had a nose. "It will help with the headache," he offered instead.

"Very well, then," Porthos said with a defeated sighed. The ointment smelled even worse once applied. "What happen' then?"

René blinked, apparently at a loss until he realized Porthos wanted the story behind his name. "Some other time, perhaps," he offered, gathering his things, a sure signal for Porthos to leave him alone.

The injured Musketeer pushed to his feet to do just that, not one to pry into others' private matters. The world, however, seemed to disagree with his decision.

A thunderous boom sounded all around them, making the whole room shake and sending both men flying through the air. In the scarce seconds Porthos managed to hang on to his consciousness, he found himself wondering when was the lightning coming.

~§~

Someone was screaming outside.

René gasped for air, coughing when his lungs filled with dust instead. The world was plunged into shadows and turned upside down, for all he could tell. Outside, he could hear people's voices, calling out names and screaming in pain.

What had happened? The last thing he could recall was mending Porthos' head, sending him on his way and then...there had been an explosion?

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. The result was quite the opposite, as pain flared like a dagger behind his eyes, making him regret the motion immediately.

Ignoring it as best as he could, René felt his way around, looking for the two men who had been in here with him. "Hello?" he called out, answered only by the groaning of abused wood.

The man who had been brought earlier with a broken nose had been closer to him, he could remember that, but finding a single bed in the midst of all the debris was like looking for a pebble in a puddle of moving sand. When he finally stumbled across a mop of dirty hair, his fingers came away sticky.

He tried to remember the man's name, but his mind was coming up empty. He could smell blood and gunpowder, the scents making his heart race faster than it had been before, sweat covering his skin. Touching one shaking hand to the ground, René was almost expecting to find snow, instead of wood. He was so cold, certainly there had to be snow nearby...

"Can som'one hear me? Anyone?"

René grabbed on to that voice. The voice of someone else in here with him, someone alive. "Porthos?" he called out, ashamed to hear the shaking seeping into his voice. Remembering where he was and that there were others in need of his help, he lowered his hand and searched the unconscious man's neck for any sign of life before setting out to find Porthos. A strong pulse beat against his fingers and René sighed in relief. Alive, for now.

"René?" Porthos called out, lucid enough to remember that the other man disliked being called by his former name. It was a good sign. "Are you hurt?"

René turned his swirling and confused thoughts to his own body, forcing himself to behave like the soldier he had once been. Apart from the pain in his head, he felt no other injury. The shivering, he was sure, was caused by nothing more than his treacherous mind. "I am well enough," he quickly offered. "You?"

The other man didn't immediately reply, but René had heard the strain in his voice when he had called out the first time.

"I seem to be a lil'...stuck."

The exasperated quality of the other man's voice at finding himself in such predicament almost made René laugh. "Don't try to move, I'll come to you."

That plan was, of course, easier said than done. The room was destroyed, sawdust and straw floating in the air and, near the door, the ceiling had collapsed. "Where are you?"

"Over here. The other..." he stumbled, apparently not knowing the man's name either. "Is he alive?"

René fumbled around, blindly navigating the debris. "For now," he offered honestly "He received a blow to his head."

"Poor runt," the Musketeer let out, sounding like he had some experience in the matter.

Porthos' voice was near, he could tell that much, even if the gloom didn't allow him to see all that well. Slowly advancing on his hands and knees, he felt his fingers touch something softer than wood or stone.

"Is that you? Tha' better be you and not some hungry rat," Porthos growled.

"It's me," René sighed in relief. Feeling his way around, he figured he had stumbled across one of Porthos' legs. He followed the line of leather pants until his arms hit wood. One of the ceiling beams, or at least part of it, seemed to be culprit for Porthos' imprisonment. Grasping the beam as well as he could, René pushed to lift it.

It felt like he was trying to move a mountain. Just as effective as well. He could barely breathe when, finally admitting defeat, he let go of the piece of wood. "Ahhrgh! I can't lift it alone!" he grunted, collapsing against the other man. "Can you use your arms?"

With him having joined the Musketeers just a few weeks before Savoy, René hadn't had that much contact with Porthos. Being one of the more seasoned soldiers in the regiment made him responsible for the training of the more-experienced recruits, not the fresh ones. But that didn't meant he hadn't heard about Porthos or seen him around. If he was to believe what was said about the new Musketeer, the man was a force of Nature.

There was a soft hiss of pain, escaping through tight lips. "Only my left one," Porthos replied tensely. "On three?"

René nodded, before remembering that the other man could hardly see that. "On three," he voiced. "What's wrong with the right one?"

"Can't move it...can't even feel it, actually," he admitted. "One."

René closed his eyes, silently worrying about the other man's confession. "Two."

"Three!" the two men said as one, pushing the beam up.

For a second, René was sure that their combined strength was having no effect on the heavy wood, but then he felt it move, inch by painfully slow inch. "It's working!"

Muscles straining from the effort, René almost screamed in frustration when the beam slipped from their grasp and fell back to its former place. Porthos was more vocal, howling in pain when the weight landed back on his chest.

"Mon Dieu, are you okay?" René asked, moving closer to the other man's head to determine if he was still breathing. Such a heavy beam, falling back onto his chest a second time...René feared for the man's ribs and the dire consequences to his lungs.

"Ahrrgh! Ya bloody, sodding bastard!" Porthos let out in one single breath, almost punching René in the face when he brought his good hand to his mouth to muffle the worst of his pain.

René sat back in shame, hearing the accusation in the other man's words. He had been the one with the full use of both hands and still he had allowed the beam slip from his grasp, further injuring his fellow Musketeer. "I am sorry, Porthos," he whispered.

"Wha' ya sorry for?" Porthos hissed, slowly getting his pain under control. "Bloody thing is as heavy as an ox, the two of us can't lift it alone."

René blinked, surprised that the other man didn't seem to hold any sort of grudge against him. Still, Porthos was right, they needed more people to help them raise the beam and set him free. "Allow me to take a look at your arm and then I'll go for help," he offered. He hated the idea of leaving the injured man alone, but there was a whole garrison outside of that room and he had no idea how the others had fared in the explosion. He would go for help, but there was no guarantee that there would be anyone left to help them.

"T' arm's fine," Porthos grunted. "Get out of here and fetch someone."

René chose to ignore him, hands roaming the other man's chest until he found the injured arm. Even without looking, he could tell what was wrong just from the angle.

"Yer a stubborn one, aren't ya?" Porthos gasped in pain as soon as René touched him.

"Your shoulder is out of place," he declared. He had seen Cerveaux deal with something like that a number of times since he had started spending his days at the infirmary. He was sure he could...

"What are ya doing?" Porthos growled menacingly.

René decided that, given the man's previous reaction to needles, it would be best to explain as little as possible about what he was about to do. Praying for the strength to do what was needed as swiftly and effectively as possible, he took hold of Porthos' arm and, bracing himself against the wall, pulled with all his might.

~§~

Athos spat and opened his eyes to find himself staring at a dead horse's head. He could feel straw in his mouth, grinding against his teeth. It was disgusting.

Pushing himself to his knees, the newly-appointed Musketeer tried to determine where he was and why he was surrounded by injured men, dead animals and debris. If he didn't know better, he would say that he had been dropped onto some battlefield while he slept.

Or at the least, in what remained of one after the enemy had left.

He had been on his way to see the Captain when the explosion happened. He remembered a blinding flash of light and being pushed by a force so strong he was sure he would die from it alone. He was wrong.

Athos groaned as he rose to his feet. Everything hurt, like he had been trampled by wild horses. Given the number of dead animals about, he doubted that the poor beasts had had the chance.

Looking around, he felt at a loss of where to turn first. There were wounded men all around, some only stunned by the blast, others beyond the help of any surgeon. A few, he could see, were already in the hands of God Himself.

The section which had seemed to suffer the most damage was the main entrance building, where the Captain kept his quarters and the weapons were stored. If he were a betting man, Athos would say that the explosion had come from the armory itself.

If it had been a tragic accident or an attack remained to be determined…after they had dealt with their wounded. "Has anyone seen the Captain?" Athos called out, looking at the scattered men in hopes of finding someone to lead them.

There was no one.

Wasting no more time, Athos grabbed a screaming man from the floor, the upper part of his left leg covered in blood, dragging along the ground. "You there!" he called out to a man nearby wandering in a daze. The naturally authoritative tone of his voice had yet to completely disappear, despite having left his title behind. "Help me with this man. Where are the sick quarters?"

~§~

René looked at where the door to the infirmary used to stand and swore under his breath. There was nothing there but a pile of rubble. Even if he tried to clear a path on his own, it would take forever and he risked bringing the rest of the room crashing down on their heads.

He ran a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to pull. How in Heaven's name was he supposed to fetch help when the way was blocked? Looking up, searching for an answer from a higher power, René saw his prayers answered. Through a couple of opened slits, he could see the sky.

When he was a small boy, there hadn't been much fun to be had other than chasing rabbits and climbing trees. His mother would spank him whenever she caught him and his friends at it, yelling that he would fall and break his neck, but that had never stopped him. And he was good at it.

Wiping the sweat and blood from his palms, René looked around for something to give him a boost up. He grabbed one of the empty beds, tossing the mattress aside and turning the frame of the bed sideways.

"Wha' t'hell are ya doing?" Porthos inquired in a soft whisper, sounding like he wasn't exactly sure of what he was seeing.

René didn't heard him, his attention on what he needed to do next. With a sure movement that spoke nothing of his tiredness and aches, he climbed on top of the sideways bed, keeping his legs apart for some semblance of balance. As the bed frame threatened to topple, he jumped up and grabbed onto to one of the few ceiling beams still in place, the bed clattering as it fell back.

Swinging back and forth until he could hoist his legs up, Aramis leveled himself up in one fluid movement, breathing a sigh of relief. Beneath him, the weakened wood groaned under his weight, like thin ice threatening to shatter.

"Yer goin' to get yerself killed," Porthos muttered from the ground. He sounded more annoyed than worried at the prospect.

"I thought you were done talking to me," René reminded the other man. At least, that was what Porthos had snarled at him, after he'd gained his breath back from the pain of resetting his shoulder. "After you told me to...what was the expression again? I mean, I'm an enthusiast of all forms of love, but how exactly _does_ one perform such an act on himself?" he said, sounding genuinely curious.

There was silence from below and René suppressed a smile. He needed to focus all of his attention on keeping his balance as he navigated the cracked ceiling beam. A few feet away there was an opening in the thatched roof and from there...well, he'd deal with it when he got there.

"Can ya see outside?" Porthos broke the silence again. "Can ya see the others? Are they safe?"

René moved forward a few more inches, grabbing onto the ceiling structure with a sigh of relief. He, too, shared the worry he could hear in Porthos' voice. The explosion was still ringing in his ears and years of experience told him that no small amount of powder had been involved to produce such a bang.

Despite those thoughts, when he gazed outside René was greeted by such a vision of destruction that he felt reality slip from his grasp. He closed his eyes, grappling desperately at the beam to stop himself from falling to his death. Even with his eyes closed, the hellish image was still there, branded upon his mind.

The garrison lay in disarray, men scurrying from one side to the other, trying to tend to ten different things at once and failing them all. There were bodies scattered on the ground, a few so unrecognizable that there was little left to label them as humans at all.

Unbidden, his eyes betrayed him, seeing frozen corpses mingled with the burned and mangled ones. Throats shredded and left agape as blood pooled in the white snow...

René suppressed a shudder. This was not the time - and certainly not the place - as he hung precariously from the roof beam. His body, however, had other thoughts on the matter, as one of his feet slipped, dragging half of his body down.

A gasp escaped his lips, even as his arms burned with the effort of keeping himself from falling.

"Oi! You still breathin' up there?"

René tried to catch his breath before answering. His heart was beating wildly against his chest as he found himself thinking of his mother. He would have hated to prove her right after so many years.

"Fine," he let out breathlessly. "I'm perfectly fine."

The other man grumbled something, too softly to understand the specifics, but the tone was enough to let him know that it hadn't been flattering. "Wha' is it then?" Porthos asked after a moment. "Wha' do ya see?"

Despite not being able to see him from his perch, René looked in the man's general direction, biting his lip. It was clear now that there were no free hands to spare to help them clear the rubble and lift the beam off Porthos' chest. If he managed to get outside, René knew he would quickly find himself helping those in more dire need than the big Musketeer. There was nothing to be done for the unconscious man with the head wound, other than wait for him to wake up and Porthos, although in pain and uncomfortable, could easily breath, in spite of the wood across his chest, and was in no need of immediate assistance. Not when he could see how many there were bleeding to death outside.

He was torn.

"Tha' bad, humm?" the other man cut through his thoughts, easily guessing what his silence meant.

"Yes," René confessed, because even though he didn't knew the other man that well, he still deserved his respect as a fellow Musketeer.

"Go on then," Porthos said, clearly understanding where his doubts resided. "We'll be fine here. Help the others."

René looked outside again. Despite the gruesomeness, there were many running around, helping the wounded. In here, Porthos and the other man had only him. Besides, he could not live with himself leaving the wounded men behind when he knew that it would take him hours, if not longer, to return with proper help. He couldn't bare to do to them the same as Marsac had done to him.

"I will not abandon you. On my honor, I promise you so." His decision made, René readied himself to get back to the ground. Jumping into complete darkness was more daunting than climbing outside and sliding off the thatched roof.

"Anyone there?"

René stopped, almost losing his balance again at the sudden sift of movement.

The voice was unfamiliar, but it was definitely coming from just outside the door of the sick chambers. René gave a quick, silent prayer of thanks, grateful that there was no longer need for him to choose. Help had come to them.

"In here!" he hurried to answer, before whomever was outside could turn and walk away. Looking around, René smiled and gave thanks for his good luck. While the path on the ground to the exit the sick rooms was completely blocked, the same could not be said for the ceiling beams.

To be continued, tomorrow ;)


	3. Chapter 3

OMG! You guys are just amazing! Thank you so much for the lovely response this story has been receiving. I can't wait to show you guys how it all ends :))))

* * *

~§~

Athos looked from where the door was supposed to be to the men following him. Besides the wounded man and the one he had coerced in to helping him, two more wounded had joined them. However, when he had set out to find the location of the garrison's medical quarters, he had not imagined that the place would be half-collapsed. They would have to find some other place to gather their wounded. "Anyone there?" he yelled, on the faint chance that there might be someone alive on the other side.

He had not expected the enthusiastic voice who answered him. Settling the wounded man he was carrying against the wall, Athos gave the debris a closer look. Whoever was in there would be in need to get out as much as they needed to get to the medical supplies inside. "How many?"

The sound of hurried steps paused just at the door. "Just three of us."

The voice sounded so near that Athos found himself looking around before realizing from where the sound had truly come. Above.

There was a young man perched on the one of the ceiling beams, looking positively at home where most men would tremble to stand. "I can see why some would confuse the ceiling for a door, but what do you propose we do about the rest of us who prefer a more...conventional entry way?"

In a motion that defied gravity, the man quickly turned around and let himself hang from his arms for a few seconds before dropping to the floor.

The whole descent would have been worthy of applause if the man had not staggered and almost fallen on his face once his feet hit the ground. It seemed he was more at ease upon the high beams than on solid ground. "Are you injured?" Athos asked. Now that he could look the man more closely, he could see the bleeding gash in the middle of his forehead and the sweat covering his skin.

The man pushed his hands away, giving him a fake smile to hide the rudeness of the gesture. "I am perfectly fine. It's just that... hadn't done that in years, I fear I'm a bit out of practice," he offered, his smile widening into something approaching sincerity.

"Very well," Athos stated, more to move matters along than because he believed the man's words. Which, incidentally, he didn't. "Are you a physician? These men are in need of urgent aid."

"No," the other man said bluntly. However, the way he moved towards the man with a bone sticking out of his leg, unbuckling his belt as he went, belied his words. Without a word, he pressed two fingers under the man's jaw and, deeming him alive, fastened the belt around the man's tight. "This man needs the attention of a surgeon, as soon as possible!"

"Our thoughts precisely," Athos agreed, looking at the blocked door once more. "What is the condition of the room? Does it have what we need?"

The younger man pushed to his knees, looking at the wounded around them. He looked haunted, distracted by the sight. Athos grabbed his shoulders, bringing the man's attention back to himself. "Can you do this?"

At the other man's faint nod, Athos looked at all that could move and gave the order to start pushing the debris away. No one even thought to question him.

~§~

Porthos had fallen into a dazed state of sleepy exhaustion when he heard the noise. Scratching and grinding, like rats behind a wall. He truly didn't like rats.

He opened his eyes, alert and on edge, not remembering where he was. The place was gloomy, but what little light came through the cracked wall allowed him to get his bearings. The sick room, where he had been forced to go by the Captain because of a minor injury.

Looking at the heavy beam laying across his chest, Porthos smirked. Next time the Captain forced him to go somewhere he didn't want to, he would be sure to remind the older man of these events.

The smile fell from his face when he recalled what had brought him away from his stupor. Rats in the walls. "Oi! Who goes there?"

The noise stopped for a moment. "Porthos?"

It took him a second to place the voice, remembering the young man who had climbed out the ceiling. "Ara—René?" he called out, stopping himself at the last second from using the name that seemed to cause so much distress. Looking up, he couldn't see the man anywhere. "Where tha hell are ya?"

"Almost there," the other answered breathlessly, his voice quickly followed by more scraping and crumbling.

He listened carefully, finally pinpointing the source of the noise at the door of the infirmary and waited. Help was coming and he couldn't help but feel relief. The young man had not abandoned him, just as he had promised.

A hand closing over his startled Porthos into awareness. He came to swinging, satisfied to hear a grunt of pain in response.

"Alive, then," someone dryly offered.

"It's René, Porthos," a now-familiar voice told him. "We are going to move the beam now, but you need to help us, yes?"

Porthos opened his eyes properly, finding himself looking at René. In the dark, his eyes were nothing more than two large dots. "Us?" he asked, looking around to find more unfamiliar faces around him. All but one. He knew that man. "Hey, didn' I beat ya up this mornin'?

The man in question gave him a poignant raised-eyebrow look. "I believe the same can be said about half the men in Paris," he said without resentment, revealing himself as the owner of the dry tone Porthos had heard before. "If everyone is quite ready...?"

Porthos helped as best as he could, which wasn't all that much. But, unlike before, there were two more men helping now. With a grunt, all the men pushed up at the same time and, after what felt like an eternity, the beam finally moved enough for Porthos to push it aside.

"Ah!" he let out, partly from the pain that flashed through his chest, partly from pure happiness at being able to move. "Finally!"

"Move him to one of the beds," René instructed from afar. Porthos hadn't even noticed his departure from his side. The man positively seemed able to be in two places at the same time.

The men around him seemed to obey René's commands without hesitation and soon after, Porthos found himself propped against a bed, more or less free of debris. He closed his eyes in relief, as his ribs thanked him for the reclined position.

An unholy scream, sounding like it had been dragged from a condemned soul at the darkest pits of hell, echoed through the room, waking Porthos with a start. With his heart hammering against his chest, he finally risked a glance up. He could see now why the others dared not interfere with anything René said.

The man was fierce when tending to others. Fearless.

Someone had cleared a portion of the rubble from the window, allowing a bit more light into the room. René's hands looked hideously red under the beam of sunlight, although the man seemed to hardly notice it as he ran a dirty one over his forehead, pushing the dark curls away from his eyes.

On the floor, lying on top of someone's cape, there was a man writhing in pain, as René methodically sewed his leg. It was impossible to distinguish between needle, fingers and flesh, all of them covered in the same bright color.

Porthos had no idea how the young man could see anything beyond the mess of blood and flesh, or even breath, for that matter. The whole room stank of sweat, piss and blood.

Fighting the bile rising inside his mouth, Porthos looked the other way, telling himself that there was no shame in being disgusted by such a sight. A man's insides were not meant to be on display like that and it seemed like an act of complete heresy to try and put back together such a thing. Or absolute bravery.

~§~

Treville woke with a gasp, his heart racing and the urgent sense that there was something he need to stop from happening eating hungrily at his brain.

"Where...where am I?" he asked groggily. There was a strong scent of burned wood and gunpowder in the air and he could feel people moving around him, but for the life of him, Treville had no idea where he was or who they were.

"Yer safe now, Cap'ain. Mindin' yer don't go around movin' much, tha' is."

The Captain blinked heavily, begging his eyes to come into focus, even though he now that he knew who was talking to him. Everyone knew Serge.

"Serge, what happened? Where are the men?"

The other man scrubbed his head, looking like someone had emptied the pantry and burned all his pots. Now that his eyes were more inclined to work, Treville could see he was lying on the kitchen table, surrounded by Serge's pans and pots and sharp knives.

"Hell, happen', Sir...the devil came to burn us all!"

Treville let out a string of words not fit for a man of his position. He remembered now. The men at the arsenal, the gunpowder... "Help me up, Serge," he ordered. "We need to find the men responsible and-"

"'Fraid I can't let ya do tha', Cap'ain," Serge let out, sounding pained from voicing such blatant disobedience.

The Captain turned his furious gaze towards the older man. It wasn't like the veteran soldier to defy orders like that.

"I'm no doctor or anythin' fancy like tha'," the man went on, "but I reckon yer leg's broken, Sir."

Looking down, Treville stared at his lower limbs. As if due to the power of his stare, pain flared from his right leg in such a vicious way that it brought tears to his eyes. From the impossible angle at which his foot sat from his knee, the experienced soldier figured that the garrison's cook was more than right.

Still, this was no ordinary situation, where a broken leg meant lying back and waiting for someone with medical skills to come and set it right. His garrison was under attack, and his men needed him. Looking around for something he could use, Treville let out a feral smile. "Fetch me that broom, will you, Serge?" he asked, ignoring the man's confused stare. "We have some villains to catch!"

Outside the moderately-quiet kitchen, the word was in chaos. A somewhat organized chaos, Treville was relived to find, as his men's training slowly surpassed the shock and pain and they set about helping the wounded and searching the ruins of most of the garrison's buildings for survivors.

Looking up at where his quarters and the armory used to stand, Treville realized how lucky he had been when he had raced for the door upon seeing the sort fuse about to reach the gunpowder barrels stored there. Ten barrels, as of the last account, if he was remembering correctly. Enough to blow himself and the other three men inside to little, unrecognizable pieces.

The force of the explosion must've send him hurtling through his balcony, to land in the yard with his leg in its current condition.

He had been truly lucky to survive such fall. The other three men, racing in front of him, might have fared better, for all he knew. Though he doubt that very much. The fuse had been too short and at least one of the assailants had been wounded by him, so they could not be far.

Still, as he looked around, he couldn't see the bodies of any of the attackers. "The dead?" he asked a passing Musketeer.

The man, startled and eyes lost in some inner battle to ignore his surroundings while doing his duty, took a moment before he could recognize the soot-covered face as his commanding officer.

"Answer me, man!" Treville snapped, knowing that, even if his mind couldn't cope with the events, the soldier in him would make the Musketeer answer. "Where have you put the dead?"

The Musketeer raised a shaky hand, pointing to the stables.

It made sense. The place was shielded from the sun and the straw-covered ground would help soak up the blood. Using his broom-turned-crutch and Serge's help, the Captain made his way there as fast as he could.

Later, he would stop and try to discern who could possibly be behind such an attack; later he would sit and mourn the list of those they had lost that day. Much later he would ponder on what future the King's Musketeers could have if they kept being slaughtered in such a manner.

For now, though, he just needed to find the men responsible for the attack amongst the dead. Because if they were not...they could be anywhere, with anyone at their mercy.

~§~

René grabbed onto to the wall, willing the world to stop spinning around him. The light outside told him that a mere couple of hours had passed since the explosion, but it felt like a lifetime had gone by in the rush of tending to all the wounded that kept arriving at the sick quarters. Somehow, word had spread that help could be found there.

All who were able were still working at clearing debris from the room, allowing him space and conditions to work. Despite the exhaustion, he could do no less than to make sure that their hard work was not wasted.

The man with the scarily large gash on his leg was now either sleeping in exhaustion or unconscious. Even though René had pushed the bone back inside and painstakingly sewed the limb back together, he feared the man would lose it anyway. If he ever woke back up.

His eyes hurt from the strain of stitching so many wounds, not only that man, but all the others who had followed. One with a rip across his chest, caused by a flying piece of iron that had left behind a wound very similar to a sword slash. A few others had burns, caused by the blast itself, but for those he couldn't do much but clean the wounds and pray to God that they lived through the fever that would certainly come.

The strangest wound he had found, however, was that of the man currently in front of him. René had never seen the man before, which wasn't surprising with the amount of strangers coming in every day for the tryouts. However, how someone could get himself a gunshot wound in the midst of an explosion, escaped him. "Hold still, I fear the ball is still inside," he instructed. "I will try to remove it."

The man turned fright-filled eyes to him. He tried to bolt from the bed, panic giving him more strength than he should've had with a ball in his leg. "I won't be hanged for t'is!" the man grunted between his teeth, looking around wildly.

René followed his gaze, confused. Why would the man hang for being wounded? "Calm yourself," he tried again, his voice soothing, as he figured pain and fear were sowing confusion in the man's mind. He had, after all, seen it happen before and to soldiers much more experienced than this stranger. To a degree, it was something he had to fight every day. "Once the ball is out, we can clean the wound and you will feel much better, you will see."

The stranger, however, kept swatting his hands away. "No!" Suddenly, there was a sharp dagger in his hands and René froze.

They were at a garrison, after all, and the sight of men carrying weapons was all too familiar and expected. It had never occurred to him to relieve the wounded man of his weapons before he approached him.

René stared at the dagger, mesmerized. The blade was tarnished dark red, probably left uncleaned since the last time it had been used.

He knew he should react, that he should do something before that blade turned on him, but for the life of him, René was frozen. Frozen, in cold and snow. Waiting to die.

"Stan' 'way from me!" the man shouted, attracting the attention of others. "I won't go down for t'is!" he warned, pulling René to his side and pushing the blade against his throat.

René barely felt the icy-cold touch of the blade against his skin. His mind was far away, trapped amongst the dead. He could only feel cold...

"Drop the weapon, Monsieur," Athos' voice sounded from across the room, the click of a pistol ready to fire filling the space. "Or down is precisely where I will send you."

"I'll kill 'im," the man warned, the despair in his voice lending credibility to his claim. "I swear to ya, I will!"

~§~

Athos' eyes bore into the wounded man, conveying nothing more than absolute resolution. He would kill the man, if he did not drop his menacing stance. The one snag in his course of action was the fact that there was a blade pressed tightly against the throat of the young medic who had been so diligently tending to the wounded.

The injured man's hand was unsteady and already Athos could see a trickle of blood running down from underneath the physician's trimmed beard. One slip of the hand and the young man's life would be forfeit.

The young man being held hostage was shaking like a leaf. However, as he looked into the medic's brown eyes, Athos was surprised to see no fear. In its stead there was sorrow and grief, his gaze distant as if the events unfolding right now were barely worthy of his attention and his mind was elsewhere entirely.

If he had not seen him at work, if he had not witnessed the swift and efficient way in which the young man mended broken bodies as if he could see inside them, Athos would think him touched in the head.

He had no idea why Treville would keep someone on his payroll only to tend to the wounded. It seemed like a waste of coin when there were plenty of physicians in the city and the good will of their comrades-in-arms would see that the sick were tended to. However, it was not his place to judge how the Captain spent the garrison's money and it certainly didn't mean that this young man's life was any less worthy because of it.

He could see the wounded man starting to falter, most likely the still-bleeding wound sapping the strength out of him. He had no inkling why the man would react so badly to having his wound treated, but then again, he didn't much care about his reasons. Athos could wait him out, his pistol unwavering as he gambled that the man would lose his senses soon.

"Help me, Gerard!" the man suddenly screamed, looking at someone behind Athos. "Do somethin', ya bastard!"

All too late, Athos understood the meaning behind those words. He turned around a split-second too late, just enough to see the butt of a pistol coming straight at his face.

After that, there was only darkness.

~§~

Porthos aroused to the sound of shouting. He almost opened his mouth to tell everybody to shut the hell up before he remembered what had happened.

The offending sound, however, was not the screams of pain that one would have expected. There had been those earlier on, he remembered that too, when René had set about mending broken bones and sewing wounds. No, what he was hearing was shouts of anger. Menaces being hurled in the air.

Porthos pushed himself up on his good arm, looking around. There were a few other beds occupied along the wall, the injured men in them either sleeping or unconscious, oblivious to what was going on.

Porthos' view was partially hindered by fallen beams, crisscrossing the room like a maze, but he could see well enough to realize what was going on.

Athos was on the floor, one of the men who had arrived with him standing menacingly over the fallen Musketeer while he argued with someone Porthos could not see.

Holding his good arm against his ribs, the big Musketeer pushed himself to his feet as quietly as he could. His insides protested the movement like hungry dogs, snarling and biting at his flesh. Grinding his teeth, Porthos pushed through the pain and nausea, sweat traveling down his back to pool at the waistband of his breeches.

Someone had taken off his boots and he was pleased to find that his feet hardly made a noise against the wood.

The arguing men were too distracted to notice his movements and Porthos took advantage of that, slowly moving forward. Now that he was standing, he could see the second man, sitting behind René on one of the beds, holding a blade to the young man's throat.

"Couldn' keep ya trap shut, could ya, Jacques?" the man holding the gun snarled. "'It's bad enough ya can' light a proper fuse, now 'his too, ya cunt? Wha' a bloody waste of skin, ya are!"

The man holding René, Jacques, shuddered at his partner's words. Anger replaced the fear in his eyes, as he waved the dagger in front of him rather than at René's neck. "'t was yer fuckin' idea, now wasn' it? Not me fault that one decided ta bring me up here an bollock tha 'hole situation!" he yelled, pointing the sharp weapon in Athos' direction, sagging against the wall as strength started to desert him.

Porthos didn't waste the opportunity. The second the blade was away from René's neck, he was on the move.

His large bulk crashed against the man holding the pistol, sending the firearm flying to the ground. Caught by surprise, Gerard staggered forward, arms flailing aimlessly, as he tried at once to repel his attacker and regain his balance.

By pure chance alone, one of his arms managed to hit Porthos' chest. The big man howled in pain as his broken ribs exploded in pain, whitening his vision into near blindness for a few precious seconds.

Gerard, still stunned by Porthos' initial blow, scrambled across the floor, desperately searching for his pistol.

Porthos couldn't let him do that. Pushing the pain away and ignoring the tears that leaked out of his eyes, the big man grabbed onto Gerard's leg, pulling him away from the weapon. With his good arm occupied with holding the squirming man and his right arm all but useless by his side, Porthos used what he could to strike. His legs weren't as nimble as most of his comrades at the barracks, almost all of them used to riding horses since a tender age. But what he lacked in agility, he more than compensated for in strength. And he had bloody long legs!

The kick landed squarely on Gerard's chest, robbing the man of his breath long enough for Porthos to use his head to smash the man's nose in. He was rewarded for his efforts with a satisfying crack, sending the other man howling in pain even as his fingers closed around the pistol's grip.

The next few seconds were a blur of failed insights.

Jacques failed to see that his partner had gripped the pistol and jumped from the bed, murderous intent in his gaze as he forgot about René and looked at Porthos.

Porthos failed to estimate how much bloodlust could lend strength to a man and snarled at Gerard as he lunged forward, to wrestle the weapon from his hands.

Gerard failed to pull the trigger before Porthos was on him, struggling to get the upper hand.

Everyone failed to see René's glassy look snap to attention and become lethal just as a shot rang out in the closed space.

~§~


	4. Chapter 4

There you go, a slightly longer chapter today, because its Sunday ;) Once more, I can't thank enough to all of you reading this and taking the time to offer me your thoughts and opinions.

As was very well suggested by one of the reviewers, I've changed the rating of this story from K+ to T. I had completely forgotten about the foul language used by some of the bad guys, and I apologize for that.

Tomorrow, the last part will be posted :))) I hope you guys continue to enjoy this story as much as I did in writing it!

~§~

The telling resonance of a pistol going off brought Athos back to his senses, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air as if it had never left since the explosion.

He was lying on the dusty floor, his face pressed against a pair of discarded braies, still wet from blood and urine. He wrinkled his nose at the offending smell even as his eyes worked to focus on what was going on. If his head had ached before, it was positively ferocious now, throbbing in misery with each beat of his heart.

A smoking pistol was thrown to the floor and Athos followed the sound. Even through vision that had gone annoyingly blurry, he could see no spread of blood coming from beneath the two men who had been struggling on the floor. It was impossible to see which, if any, had been hit until one of them scrambled away, sitting dazzled on the floor. With a pang of worry, Athos realized that it was the wrong one.

The villain, Gerard, had a look of trapped animal about and was surely as dangerous as one. Porthos had remained on the floor, his face devoid of color, a streak of red going from his breast to his left shoulder.

Even a barely acquaintance as theirs had been, Athos had firmly believed Porthos to be a reliable ally in the present situation. He could perfectly recall the power of the man's fists when they had fought earlier that day. It had been only by chance - and a few dirty tricks - that he had managed to come out of it relatively unscathed. Now, with the only other able man inside the room out of commission, Athos realized that it fell to him to assure the safety all the innocent lives inside it. How in Heaven he was going to succeed in doing that when his eyes refused to focus and with his head splitting in half when he raised it more than a few inches from the ground, Athos had no idea.

He had, of course, completely forgotten about the medic.

Having earlier discarded the young man as useful in a fight, he was more than a little surprised when said man sprang into action. Athos had never seen anyone move that fast. In fact, he was fairly sure he was hallucinating the whole matter.

Throwing his elbow sideways, to land a vicious blow to the face of the man who had been holding a knife to his throat, the medic jumped off the bed and, with an agility that Athos had only witnessed before in country fairs' acrobats and jugglers, rolled above Porthos and the man holding the gun to land inches from Athos' face.

Still stunned by the elegant move, Athos had little room to react as the young man, noticing his opened eyes, winked at him before pulling Athos' rapier from its sheath. "If I may?" he asked with a gentle bow. The naked worry Athos had caught in his gaze was well-hidden from his carefree tone.

The man who had shot Porthos spat on the floor, two teeth rattling against the hard boards. He pulled himself to his feet with a groan, unsheathing his own sword as he went. "Ya spoilin' for an early grave, are ya boy?" he growled, letting out a bitter laugh.

"I am already dead, Monsieur," the young man told him with a mocking bow, bring the sword to his face in salute. "I bid you to join me, before you can cause any more harm."

Athos struggled to his feet, only to discover that the ground had turned to water and he could find no leverage to stand. That boy was signing his death sentence and he could not just stand – lie - there and watch.

Swords clashed with a shower of sparks, and Athos forced himself to look. It was easy, with his blurry vision that robbed him any details in the fighters' faces, to replace the younger man with the face of his brother. It would be anything but easy to watch his brother being killed a second time.

The physician, however, seemed to have a few more tricks up his sleeve, other than his acrobatics. With an elegance that spoke of vast experience and skill, he parried the other man in a succession of fast movements that left Athos feeling dizzy.

An experienced and accomplished swordsman himself, Athos could see that, although the young man's mastery of the sword wasn't perfect - one seldom was, outside of the private tutoring that only nobility could afford - he was certainly skillful.

Two things became very clear, very quickly. That the young man was no ordinary medic and the fight would not last long.

As if waiting for him to reach this very conclusion, Athos heard a grunt of pain as the young man's rapier - _his_ rapier, incidentally - pierced the villain's side. Hardly a killing blow, but enough to render the man powerless.

"Yield!" the young man's voice was commanding, as steely and sharp as the blade in his hands. "And you may yet live, Monsieur."

Athos could almost laugh at the extreme politeness, so out of place in the events that had just unfolded. Movement behind the medic's back, however, robbed all reasons for laughter from his lips.

The other man, the one who had started the whole situation, was on the move, feverish eyes filled with nothing but contempt as he pulled a dagger from his boot, ready to throw it into the unsuspecting medic's back.

His pistol, Athos noted, was still by his side, unfired. Cursing the uselessness of his eyesight that would never allow him to make the shot without hitting the young man himself, Athos took a leap of faith. "Here!" he shouted, throwing his pistol in the air.

It was an impossible shot. It should have been an impossible shot. And yet...

The young man's eyes locked with Athos', understanding where the threat was to be found, from his look alone. The pistol sailed through the air and landed perfectly in his hand. Any other man would've grabbed the weapon, looked behind, aimed and fired. Any other man would have died because of his tardiness, for by that time the dagger would already be thrown and would have certainly hit its mark.

The young man didn't waste his time turning back and aiming at his target. He just fired over his shoulder.

Numb fingers dropped the dagger as the man on the bed looked ahead, eyes already frozen in death, his mouth opened in the most complete expression of surprise. From the center of his forehead, a thin trail of blood dribbled, cutting a path down his face until it fell across his unseeing eyes, like bloody tears.

~§~

Treville had sent the other men racing up the stairs to the sick rooms as soon as he had heard the first shot, resigning himself to follow at a slower pace.

Having failed to find the faces of the attackers amongst the dead, Treville had first looked towards the entry arch leading to the streets of Paris, imagining that if able to do so, the criminals would have made their escape as fast as they could.

He had taken upon himself to personally go into the street and ask the numerous bystanders if there had been any sight of men running out of the garrison.

It was easy to tell, from the look of pure horror in the people's faces, that he must have presented a frightful vision. An apparition of blood, soot and anger, like a demon dragged from Hell below.

No one had seen a soul escape the smoldering garrison.

There were a number of Red Guards watching from the outside, not even bothering to hide their smirks as Treville locked eyes with them. It was plain to see that they were not there to help, but it enraged him that they would so carelessly and openly enjoy the suffering of fellow soldiers.

Looking closely, however, Treville thought to see something more behind their amusement. If he didn't know better about the animosity between Musketeers and the Cardinal's men, the Captain could almost swear there was anxiety and worry there as well. For whom, he wondered, for it would certainly not be directed at his men.

Pushing the matter aside to deal with later, he hobbled back inside. If the attackers weren't amongst the dead and they had not escaped, there was only one place where they could possibly be. The garrison.

Gathering every able men he could along the way, Treville made his way back, already planing to search the garrison's grounds from top to bottom. Those rats would not be able to hide for long. He was back at the yard when they heard the first shot, a few seconds apart from a second. "The sick rooms!" he called out, his men already racing towards the source of the noise.

As the Captain made his way painfully slowly up the stairs, his leg shooting daggers every time he failed to keep it in the air, his mind raced with the grim possibilities that would greet him once he reached the source of the shots.

One of the men he had sent ahead, Doujons, came racing back, a wide smile playing on his face. Treville frowned. What reason could this man possibly have to be smiling? Was he in his cups?

"He's got them, Cap'ain!" the man announced with a toothy grin. "Aramis got them both!"

Treville was sure he had heard it wrong. Certainly his ears were playing tricks on him, or maybe Doujons was confused. Had it been one of the new recruits bringing him the news, Treville would have not believed at all. But Doujons was an experienced Musketeer, one who knew Aramis well enough to not mistake him for any other.

Walking past the excited Musketeer, Treville looked at the sick room. The place was in shambles, despite the effort that had clearly been made to sort out a few beds and clear most of the debris. Even so, it was hard to get inside for he had to do it at an odd angle that did his broken leg no favors.

There were at least four beds occupied with injured men and at the end of the wall, he could see one man with a broken nose and his hands tied in front of him, sitting next to another who was clearly dead. Treville easily recognized them as two of the attackers. The third one, he was relieved to see, was lying in one of the beds, his leg covered in neat stitches, even if the skin was already beginning to turn black. He would not be long for this world, that one. Treville couldn't find it in himself to pity the man.

The face he found himself looking for had his back turned to the door. The mass of unruly dark curls, however, was quite easy to recognize.

Aramis was kneeling by the side of a bed. The contrite position, however, had less to do with prayer than it had with easier access to the wounded man lying there.

Porthos' skin was ashen, beads of sweat peppering his face and torso, his teeth grinding against the pain. His right arm lay motionless by his side and there were angry-looking bruises all over his chest. There was a large gash on his left shoulder, burned at the edges and sluggishly bleeding. Athos, he could see, was leaning against the wall, close to the other two men, looking like he was standing guard, despite his closed eyes and the pain etched on his face.

"What in the devil's name happened here?" Treville broke the silence, causing the three to notice his presence for the first time.

Aramis looked up, giving him a shy smile before resuming his work, pushing a clean square of linen against the wound. Athos was the one who held his gaze. "Tempers were raised," he said emotionlessly. "Guns were fired. Intruders were dutifully subdued," he went on, exchanging a look with the medic. "We prevailed, more or less unscathed."

Treville shook his head, knowing that a more - much more - detailed report would be provided, once things had quieted down some. Athos was right, though. For now, all he needed to know was that they had prevailed. "How is everyone faring? René?"

The man in question looked up at him, the sadness Treville had grown used to see in his eyes now tempered with tiredness and something else. Something that he wanted to believe to be a sense of purpose. "Some better than others, Sir. It is mostly minor injuries that will eventually heal. Adrian and Mortier have the more serious burns, and Benoit will not be able to use his arm for a while. Those two," he said pointing to the man who had been in the infirmary since before the explosion, and the one whose leg had been in shambles, "I do not know their names, but one doesn't seem able to wake up and the other... I fear doctor Cerveaux will be forced to chop off his leg when he arrives," he whispered, trying to keep his words from the man in question. He wiped a trembling hand over his forehead, leaving a smear of blood behind. It was impossible to tell how much of the red stain was his and how much belonged to others. "He is beyond my skills, I'm afraid."

Treville looked at the man he had pointed out. He had seen wounds like that before. There was nothing even a physician could do for him now that decay had settle in his leg. "Either way, he's bound for the gallows, so I wouldn't concern myself too much with his fate," the Captain said bitterly. "What about you, Porthos?"

"Fit as a fiddle, Cap'ain," the man said, even though he grimaced with pain as Aramis pressed harder on his wound. "Just sorry I wasn' the one that put them two out of their misery," he added with an angry growl.

"The gallows?" Athos asked from his spot, his eyes having closed back again at some point, even though he was still clearly following the conversation.

It took Treville an extra second to realize what Athos was asking about, the events of the day slowly taking their toll. It was clear, however, that none of the men in front of him had any idea of the cause behind all the evil that had come to pass that day. "I found that man, along with those two," he pointed at the dead man and his bounded companion, "tampering with the gunpowder in the armory. Put a ball in one of them, but the whole thing went off before I could warn anyone," the Captain said, coming as close as he could to admitting that he felt guilty for not having been faster.

"So, that's where the gunshot wound came from!" Aramis said, looking at the dead man against the wall. Seeing the Captain's intrigued look, he explained himself. "He panicked when I went to treat his wound...it's what set all of this off, really."

Reading the guilt in the Musketeer's voice, Treville's eyes turned to steel. "What set this off," he corrected, "was the deceit and treachery of two men who have already paid for their crimes and a third who will soon wish he hadn't survived. Are we clear?"

Aramis dejectedly nodded, averting his eyes. Treville's hopes that something might have changed in the young man withered at this reaction.

"Do we know of their reasons, Captain?" Athos asked. His mind, it would seem, never lost focus.

"Not yet, but I'm sure we'll have some answers soon," Treville said, looking pointedly at the only surviving attacker. The man would rue the day he had decided to murder his Musketeers. He turn on his crutch, intended to do just that, when his good leg betrayed him.

Strong hands found his arms before the Captain could make an undignified landing on the floor and he looked up, finding an amused Aramis holding him up. He could not recall the last time he had seen mirth in that boy's eyes.

"Perhaps that is something that can be dealt with," Aramis whispered, pushing him to sit one of the beds, "after we take care of that leg, Sir."

Treville looked in annoyance between the smirking Musketeers and his broken leg, seemingly affronted by their joint lack of respect for his wishes. "Porthos needs your attention more urgently than me," he pointed out.

"Porthos will need some convincing before I can get anywhere near him with a needle," Aramis whispered, only to add in a more conversational tone, "besides, I see no bone peeking out. Setting your leg and splinting it should be a matter of a few minutes."

"Very well, then," Treville conceded less than graciously. It was not his first time with a broken bone. He knew what was coming better than most. "Let's be done with this."

As Aramis set about realigning the bones of his leg, Treville found himself using words that would have brought shame even to seasoned sailors.

~§~

Doctor Cerveaux vehemently refused to enter the garrison after he learned that an attempt had been made against it. He defended his position with the notion that his knowledge was much too precious for him to risk his life in such a dangerous place. There had been, after all, an explosion there. Who was to say that more would not follow?

"Besides," he went on, all but dismissing the man in front of him. "That fellow of yours that seems to never want to leave the sick room, what's-his-name, can very well deal with a few scrapes and bruises."

Du Dijon held on tightly to the hilt of his rapier, the only thing at the moment stopping him from shoving a fist into the impossibly obnoxious man's face. That, and the fact that the Captain would not appreciate the trouble such an action would cause, on top of everything else. "Is that your final word, Monsieur?"

A door, slamming shut in his face, was an answer that left little room for doubt.

There were other doctors in the city. Du Dijon was sure he would be able to convince at least one of them to come.

~§~

A few hours of sleep had done wonders for Porthos' mood. He couldn't say the same about the aches and soreness that had taken command of his whole body in the interim, but he could truthfully declare that he no longer felt like a trampled piece of horse-shit. Just a non-trampled one.

Porthos moved slowly, pushing himself up against the head of the bed. His bandaged left arm was throbbing like a drum from Hell, his head was killing him and he felt like his mouth was stuffed with wool. Those last two ailments, he knew, he had no else to blame for but himself. And maybe that accursed medic, René.

He remembered all-too-well what had happened. For all that he ached, Porthos was well aware that he shouldn't be feeling anything at all. He should be dead.

When the pistol had gone off, he was sure that blast would be the last thing he would ever hear on this earth, but he found himself taking a shaky breath, followed by another, and another until he was finally convinced that he still lived. He suspected that being dead wouldn't hurt that much.

There had been a blur of movement above him and suddenly there were swords clashing somewhere above his head.

It took him more than a few moments to realize that the person dueling his shooter was none other than René. He feared for the boy's safety, until he reminded himself that, despite everything, this was an experienced soldier, probably more skilled with a sword than Porthos himself. The fight was over in less than a minute, but there had been no time to feel relief as he heard Athos' warning shout.

He'd tried to move, tried to figure out where was the danger coming from to help René, but before he could do either, his eyes caught a sight that he would never forget.

René, the gentle medic who refused to be acknowledged as the Musketeer Aramis, had put the pistol that had suddenly materialized in his hands, over his shoulder and fired without aiming. He hadn't even as much as looked at the target, moving like he was just playing, shooting bottles for fun. The thud of a body hitting the wall told him that the shot had been no play and the ball had found its target.

Porthos found himself smiling, knowing that there was at least one of the rumors he could now believe. That man was the best marksman he had ever seen in his life!

After that, there had been too many hands touching him, too much movement being imposed upon his battered body and he lost track of events until he had woken up to find the Captain staring down at him with a frown.

Words had been exchanged, he was sure of it, even if his brain didn't see fit to remember a single one of them. He remembered the Captain cursing a blue streak, the sound of a bone snapping and then René was standing above him again, holding a string of silk and a needle.

" _Tha' better not be for me," Porthos said, turning to get out of the bed before the other man could trap him. With both arms out of commission and his ribs not taking too lightly to the rotating movement, he could do nothing more than yelp in pain and lie back down._

" _Your shoulder won't stop bleeding otherwise," René explained, sitting by his side. "I can give you something to bite on, if you think it will help," he offered._

 _Porthos stared daggers. "You poke tha' thin' in me and I swear I'll cut off yer balls and feed'em to the pigs!"_

 _René had raised an eyebrow, more amused at the threat than actually scared. Porthos figured he didn't look like much of a threat then, lying helpless as a kitten on that bed. The feeling only served to boost his anger._

 _Forgetting the pain, he had swung his right arm wide, aiming for the medic's jaw. His attack, however well-aimed, was sluggish, making it all too easy for the medic to dodge his fist._

 _Porthos growled in frustration, because now he had to contend with an arm that flared in agony at the movement and the smirking face of the man he had failed to hit. But then again, he had been amazed at the medic's speed just a few moments before. Was it that surprising that René had so easily avoided him?_

" _That is no way to treat the man trying to help you," a voice scolded from somewhere beyond his field of vision._

" _Come closer and th'pigs will be havin' a feast!" he spat. Why was it so hard for these two to understand that his arm didn't need any bloody stitches in it?_

 _Porthos could face a pistol with a smile on his face and, even though he was still learning, swords and daggers were only as lethal as the person wielding them. He had no fear of either._

 _Needles, on the other hand, gave him the chills. The idea of tiny pricks, going in and out of his skin like he was nothing but a pair of old breeches...he could not. He would not! And there was nothing that these two could do to convince him otherwise._

 _The thing was, he knew there were only two ways to stop a bleeding wound, and being roasted like a pig wasn't at the top of Porthos' favorite things either. Stitching would have to do, even if he was just too stubborn to admit defeat._

 _A bottle of brandy appeared in his line of sight, the liquid inside the color of honey. "It will numb you."_

 _Porthos followed the hand holding the bottle and looked into Athos' blue eyes. He was offering him a way out without losing his honor. Realizing that there was really not much else that he could do, Porthos took the bottle and, snapping the cork out with his teeth, drank his fill._

" _Good," Athos voiced, disappearing from his line of sight once more. "Because my counter-offer was a fist."_

Porthos had drunk almost all of the bottle before René had even started the first stitch. He was laughing at the medic by the fifth. Before René's needle had reached a dozen, Porthos was profoundly apologizing for having threatened their privates with pigs. Although, by then, his speech had been so slurred that he was sure neither man had understood a single word.

That had been hours ago. Or the day before. Looking at the feeble light coming from the slits of partially-cleared window, it was impossible to tell if it was sunset or sunrise he was seeing.

Gazing around himself, Porthos could see that something close to order had been established, at least in the sick room. Most of the rubble had been cleared away and the wounded were now sleeping on clean beds, instead of ripped mattresses with straw coming out and shards of wood sticking in. The door had been completely cleared, even if the frame remained broken.

Everything was so quiet and peaceful that he could feel himself sliding back into slumber. The sound of dragging feet made him keep his eyes open a little longer.

René had been sitting by one the beds in the far corner, and Porthos had missed his presence until the man moved to the next bed. Even from this distance, he seemed dead on his feet.

"René," he called out, finding that his voice was too raspy to properly carry. "René!"

The man in question looked up, a smile upon his face when he spotted Porthos awake.

"Porthos! How are you feeling?"

Despite the cheerfulness of his voice, the energy didn't seem to reach the rest of his body. The wound on his head had scabbard already, the blood cleaned at the some point. There were dark shadows under the man's eyes and an unsteadiness to his gait that Porthos found unsettling. "Wher's Doctor Cerveaux?" he asked, noticing for the first time that the medic was the only one up.

René shrugged, rolling his head around his neck when the movement induced some dormant pain. "Too frightened of the ceiling falling on his head to come, I was told," he offered. "A Doctor Ballot... Bayoug...some name I forget at the moment; he came for a while last night, mostly to nod at what had already been done, before he went home," he added with a tired smile.

Porthos threw a quick glance at the ceiling, briefly wondering how well-founded were the doctor's fears before his gaze landed on the stain marking the far wall, dried blood turning black as it waited to be cleaned. "Th' bastards who did this?"

"Taken to the Châtelet, the one still alive," René answered with a hard look. "The other one didn't make it through the night."

He made no mention of the man he'd shot dead, and Porthos wasn't about to bring up the matter. "When was th' last time ya've rested?" he asked, instead

The medic stared at him, looking confused by the question before shrugging once more and dismissing it entirely. He sat on the edge of Porthos' bed, a sigh escaping his lips. "Your shoulder is healing well," he said, moving to peek under the bandage. "No signs of infection."

"Y'er exhausted," Porthos stated, grabbing the man's arm with the hand that was hanging from a sling. The flesh beneath his grip was shaking. "Let some'ne else stan' watch for a bit."

René snorted at that, letting his head hang low, a cascade of dark curls hiding his face. "Because that worked so well the last time I did it," he muttered, more to himself than in answer to Porthos' plea. When he looked up, his eyes had taken on that distant look that, despite the short amount of time spent in his presence, Porthos had come to recognize and hate. "Besides, there is no one else," he pointed out, his nod indicating the room filled with men in several states of unconsciousness.

Seeing that the man was too stubborn and too burdened by whatever memories haunted his mind, Porthos decided to change tactics. He could see that René was dead on his feet and that it was now only a matter of location as to where he would collapse: this bed or the floor. "M'ribs ain' lettin' me breath properly," he said shyly. "Is there somethin'...?" he continued, letting it hang in the air.

Back when he was living at the Court, he had seen too many children affected by lung conditions that compromised their breathing. More than once, he had watched their mothers and healers rub an ointment on their chests that eased the condition in a matter of hours. He was sure there had to be something of the likes of that in the garrison's sick quarters.

"Of course," René nodded, jumping to his feet like someone had stuck a needle in his behind. "I have just the thing," he offered before shuffling away.

Porthos hated himself for forcing the exhausted man to move an inch more, but he told himself that it was for a good cause. That ointment, that he had seen used so many times, had the unfortunate side effect of putting to sleep anyone who stood close enough to breath it, a fact that Porthos was more than willing to use to his advantage.

"I thought his name was Aramis," a voice said from the bed next to his, making Porthos look away from René's weary footsteps. Athos was lying on his side, staring at him with eyes slightly glazed over.

"'tis," Porthos said. "He don' like it much. Prefers René."

" _René_ ," Athos said, seemingly testing the name on his tongue, "is wasting himself in here. He would make a fine Musketeer."

Porthos snorted, thinking the other man was joking. Then he remembered that Athos had only arrived at the garrison the previous day. It felt like a whole year had gone by. "'e _**is**_ a Musketeer. A fine'ne too, from wha' I hear tell."

"He's not very good at taking care of himself," the other man added after a while.

For some reason, those words set Porthos' teeth on edge. Athos had known René for little more than a day, owed his life to him, same as the rest of them, and yet, there he was, laying judgment on the boy and finding him lacking.

"Now, listen 'ere-" Porthos started, only to have the other man raise his hands in a peaceful gesture.

"I meant only to say that he pushes himself too much," he explained. "I have not seen him stop once since yesterday. One can only guess when he last took to the sheets before that," he offered, turning onto his other side, effectively ending the conversation.

Porthos nodded even though the other man could no longer see him. He wholeheartedly agreed. "'s time we correct tha'," he whispered with a wink.

Just then, the object of their conspiracy walked back in, a pot in his hands. He stumbled over the foot of one of the beds, almost losing his grip on the pot and cursing, as if the fault was on the piece of furniture.

"Here it is," René announced, placing the strong-smelling stuff next to Porthos. "Can you do it yourself or do..?"

Porthos gestured to his arms, one heavily bandaged and the other in a sling. He could tell that the other man was well-aware of the ointment's side effects, from his reluctance and the way he kept the pot as far away from his nose as he could. Porthos let out a raspy cough, for show.

Sighing, René sat once more on the edge of the bed, spreading a good portion of the ointment carefully on Porthos' bruised chest. The smells of forest and rain filled the room heavily.


	5. Chapter 5

~§~

René struggled to keep his eyes open. He suspected that the other man had asked for that particular ointment on purpose, knowing how hard it would be to fight the pull of sleep with its soothing smell in the air. However, the paste would indeed ease Porthos' pain, and René could not truly fault the man for his scheming.

It felt strange to have someone go to such lengths to ensure his well-being. It felt almost like warmth.

He had not felt such a sense of loyalty ever since he had lost twenty-one of his brothers in Savoy. Twenty he could still visit, buried behind the training fields. The other...

Marsac had been a blacksmith's apprentice before he had joined the Musketeers, not a soldier like him. And yet, the man had taken it upon himself to protect and watch over René, like an older brother.

It had been Marsac on watch that night. Because René had complained about his back, after such a long ride, and his friend had offered to take his place.

The attackers came so suddenly and with such vengeance that it wouldn't have mattered who stood watch, really. But, because of him, Marsac was the one bearing the guilt and uncertainty of the 'what ifs'.

What if he had seen them sooner?

What if he had shouted the alarm louder?

What if he had stayed to fight instead of rescuing Aramis?

René shook his head, hoping the movement would dislodge those dark thoughts from his mind. Instead, it rattled his brain hard enough to render him dizzy. His hand slipped on Porthos' chest as he rubbed in the paste, the world spinning around him. He grabbed onto the bed sheets to anchor himself.

"Hey, now," Porthos' voice sounded like it was coming from the deep. "Y'er alrigh' there?"

René took a deep breath, his lungs filling with the smells of forest and earth. The snow-covered forests of Savoy had possessed no smell, except that of blood. "Just tired, I suppose," he admitted. The bed looked so inviting...

"Ya could rest, ya know? Plen'y of empty beds," Porthos suggested.

Again, there was a warmth to his voice that made René lean closer, wanting to melt the ice in his bones in the light of the other man's concern. "In a moment," he conceded, his gaze wandering to the occupied beds. All the men were resting and safe, their wounds tended to and on the mend. Still, he felt like they would simply slip away if he were to close his eyes for a minute.

He was just going to finish rubbing the salve on Porthos' torso, and then fetch some water for Mortier...and Adrian could do with fresh bandages...

"Ya owe me a tale," the other man said out of the blue. René figured that his face must've shown his confusion, because Porthos decided to elaborate. "'bout y'er other name. Ya told me it'd been a misunderstandin' of sorts?"

René frowned. He had no recollection of making such a promise, but he was too tired to sort out all of the long hours he had been awake in search of an answer.

Aramis felt like someone else entirely, the brave soldier who faced every danger with a smile on his face and a witty remark on his lips.

Aramis was someone he both hated with all his heart and, at the same time, longed to be more than anything else. He owed no allegiance to the name.

"A package, send to me at my former regiment," he explained, his eyes drooping in exhaustion as he got lost in the memory. "My friends back at the village didn't knew what name I had given to the army, nor how much of my past life I had shared, so they decided to play it safe and send the parcel simply addressed to 'The René friends' – _Au René amis_ -. When it finally arrived to my hands, the handwriting had all but faded away, leaving nothing but 'A R amis'," he said with a small chuckle. "It stuck, I s'pose..."

Porthos let out a hearty laugh, clasping the younger man's shoulder. "Ther's worse things than being named by yer friends," he offered.

René looked pointedly at his hand, the one he supposedly couldn't use to apply the salve to himself.

Porthos shrugged, unapologetic. There was no point in keeping up the ruse, René figured. His eyes were so heavy he was sure he was already asleep where he sat. "I don't think...I'd evva tol' that to...anyone," he mumbled, sounding vaguely surprised by the realization and the slurring of his words.

"Oi! Help me wit' him!"

When a set of hands that couldn't possibly belong to Porthos grasped his shoulders and gently pushed him down to rest, René didn't even think to question their intention or put up a fight. He just allowed himself to let go. He felt oddly at home.

~§~

"Oi! Help me wit' him!"

Athos opened his eyes, stopping his pretense of sleep. He'd been listening to the quiet conversation between the two men, despite his best efforts to ignore them. It was at once endearing and infuriating the way the young medic still refused to go to bed, like a stubborn child. It was unbecoming of a man who could already grow his own beard.

Thomas used to do the same when he was a boy, pushing himself beyond exhaustion to stay up late with the grownups, until he ended up falling asleep on Olivier's shoulder.

For the second time in as many days, the accursed medic – _Musketeer_ \- Athos amended in his mind, still surprised at the revelation - had made him think of his dead brother and he couldn't help but slightly hate the man for it.

For a second, he entertained the idea of feigning sleep and ignore Porthos' call for help altogether. In fact, had he been able to rise at all without the ground fleeing from under his feet, Athos would've left hours ago to find the cure for his ailments at the bottom of a bottle.

As it was, he was still trapped in that bed and his sense of honor would not shut up about the baseness of not lending a helping hand. Even if that hand was needed merely to stop the hero of the moment from falling into an undignified nap on the floor.

With a groan, the former Comte pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed for a second as the room danced around him. His vision remained still a bit blurry, but Porthos' bed was right next to his and he could now see the other man's predicament almost clearly.

René was listing to one side, still mumbling words that were now impossible to understand. His eyelids moved sluggishly, each blink longer than the previous. The ointment fumes had certainly done their job.

As he watched, Athos saw the exact second when the young man lost his battle with consciousness and tilted back. Alarm filled Porthos' eyes, his bandaged arm reaching forward even as Athos sprang into action.

Athos' hands closed around wiry arms at the same time that Porthos grabbed onto a fistful of the young man's shirt. He fell bonelessly against Athos' chest, his head hitting his shoulder and rolling to the side.

"Ya got 'im?" Porthos breathed out, his face ashen from the strain he was putting on his injuries.

Athos nodded, knowing his voice would betray him. He had staggered under the sudden added weight, cursing once more the cowardly bandit who had attacked him from behind. Desperately looking around for someone else to aid them, Athos cursed louder as he saw that all the others were blissfully unaware of their dilemma. There was only one solution.

Reaching out with one of his legs, Athos pulled his bed closer, giving thanks to poorly-funded garrison that could only afford feeble bed frames. Once he had the two beds close enough, he let himself fall back, taking René's dead weight with him.

Porthos gave him a look, halfway between amused and impressed, but he wisely chose to say nothing as, between the two of them they managed to prop René's sleeping form in the midst of the two joined beds.

Determined to ignore the two men now that the task was completed, Athos turned his back on them once more. He would procure rest in what remained of the night and make his escape from that blasted room in the morning and never speak of this again.

His demons, however, would not let him sleep. The night felt endless and every time he closed his eyes, the image of his dead brother was there to greet him. And her, dressed in white... swinging...

A flopping hand landed across his shoulder. Athos tried to shrug it off, but instead of falling away, the hand grabbed on.

The former Comte turned angrily, ready to give a piece of his mind to the abusive medic, who was clearly overstaying his welcome. The angry words died in his throat. As it were, they would have fallen on deaf ears...well, sleeping ears.

The young man had curled onto his side, his knees pulled to his chest with one arm draped around them, apparently trying to look as small as a grown man could possibly achieve. His other hand had latched onto Athos' arm, the grip tightening as whatever had invaded his dreams made him whimper and tremble, like he was freezing cold. The dark shadows that still surrounded his eyes made him look gaunt and fragile. In need of protection.

Athos did not wished to wonder about what plagued the young man's dreams, but he could not ignore the signs in front of him. He was not the only one being haunted by vicious demons.

~§~

Treville had stomped his good foot at staying confined to the sick room. After all, his arms and head were functioning perfectly well and if the idea was to sit and rest, he could do it just as well in his quarters.

His garrison had been attacked on his watch, under his command. Seven musketeers had paid the price and a dozen more had been injured during the explosion.

It was more than a matter of honor to bring those responsible to justice. It was his duty...it was a chance to atone for his sins.

Tragedy was still too fresh in the hearts of the whole garrison, and his own. Something like this, so soon after, could rob even the sturdiest soldier of his spirit.

Treville was determined to not let that happen. Not again.

Savoy had been a disaster waiting to happen. Long had he distrusted the Cardinal and his conniving ways. When he had been ordered to give up the position of his men in a place so close to possible conflict, Treville's instincts had clawed at him, warning him that something very wrong was about to happen.

His men must have thought him a lunatic when he had decided to gather a small force and join the training group so shortly after their departure. His reasoning had been that he wanted to surprise them, watch the men in action and judge their behavior away from their Captain. In a regiment with only three years of existence, it was an excuse that raised no eyebrows. Even so, he took with him only his most trusted soldiers.

Truth was, the gnawing at his heart that something horrible was bound to happen would not let Treville close his eyes at night. So he had gone, hoping -praying- that his instincts were, for once, wrong.

The amount of crows surrounding the area where his men had set their camp, was the first sign that something had gone amiss. Even so, nothing could have prepared them for the sight that greeted them.

There were dead soldiers... everywhere.

Treville and the two men who had joined him were no strangers to war and its ugliness. This however...

Some of the men had still been inside their tents, curled up, as if asleep. Most of them were in their undergarments, their modesty barely covered as they were slain.

They had all been slaughtered, heedless lambs murdered in their sleep. There had been no honor, no deference, no respect for human life. Just bloodshed.

They found Aramis amongst the dead. He had been kneeling on the snow, feverishly sewing a wound on the chest of a corpse. It had taken all three of them to pull the young man from amidst the cadavers he was so desperately still trying to save, In the end, they had been forced to restrain him, to stop Aramis from returning to mend the dead.

The wound on his head had been a serious one, and the exposure to the harsh elements had brought on a high fever. For a long time, Treville had been sure that Aramis would soon join his fellow soldiers on the cold ground. God, however, wasn't so merciful.

From the moment it became clear that the young man would survive, Treville had taken measures to assure his continuous safety. No one could ever know that he had survived. It would be the end of Aramis. The Cardinal would make sure of that.

Sworn to secrecy, the two men who had joined Treville had returned to the garrison with the horrible news. Treville had stayed behind, watching over Aramis as he slowly crawled his way back to the living.

It didn't surprise the Captain one bit when, once recovered, the young man chose to spend his days amongst the sick and injured, rather than resuming his former duties.

Treville ran a hand through his hair, chasing the weariness away. He wanted nothing more than to question the assailant who had been captured, but the man had swiftly been taken to the Châtelet, for fear of what the Musketeers might do to him in their grief. And now, the cursed piece of paper in front of him told him that he would never get the opportunity.

It seemed that the Cardinal had seen fit to rob him of his chance of investigating the matter further and had taken the culprit from his hands, stating that Treville was too close to the subject to be fully trusted in keep his impartiality.

Treville was certain that what the older man meant to say was that he was sure the bandit would not live to see his execution day if he were to remain in the Musketeers' care and had taken his chance to soil the Captain's reputation in front of the King. Again.

Treville crumpled the message into a wrinkled ball and sent it flying against the wall, disappointed that it was too soft to punch through the stone like he wished. He would deal with the Cardinal later. In the meantime, he had a garrison to put back on its feet and his men to worry about. "What's the word on the wounded, Pierre?"

The boy, young enough to barely be able to grow a proper beard, had been serving as Treville's legs for the past day, running errands and summoning people to his quarters. He started at the rough sound of the Captain's voice, looking as if he had fallen asleep where he stood. Apparently, Treville had been caught up in his musings longer than he had thought.

"Humm...Aramis says that they're all recoverin' and at least four of 'em can go back to their chambers by t'morrow," the boy hurried to report.

Treville glared. "Who did you say told you this?"

"Aramis, sir," the boy stated, lowering his gaze to the floor, sure that the ire rising in the Captain's face was aimed at him. "He's been there since it all happen', so I figured he would know best..."

Treville realized he must have made some kind of growling sound, because the boy stopped talking and took a step back, lowering his head. The explosion had happened the morning of the day before, and the present one was almost at an end, which meant that Aramis, who Treville clearly remembered not having escaped the attack unscathed, had been left to his own devices for nearly two days straight. "Grab my stick, Pierre," the Captain ordered, still fuming at the news. "We are going for a walk."

As he made his way slowly to the infirmary, Treville wasn't exactly sure towards whom his anger was directed the most: if towards the doctor that he'd been assured would come, to relieve the young man from his care of the wounded; or towards himself, for letting other matters occupy his mind and not having kept a closer watch on the workings of the sick rooms.

He knew how obsessed with caring Aramis could get, and he alone knew the reasons why the young man behaved so. Still Treville had let things slide for almost two days.

His leg be damned! Treville was determined to reach that sick room and stop whatever nonsense Aramis was up to, even if he had to drag the young man by his pointy beard and put him to bed like he had done for his own daughters. It was high time the man learned to take care of hims-

Any thoughts of scolding one his soldiers as if he were a toddler vanished from the Captain's mind when he looked upon the sight that greeted him in the sick room.

Aramis, quietly asleep, flanked by Porthos on one side and one of the new recruits, Athos, on the other.

A smile turned up the corners of his mouth. A sight to be seen, indeed. He'd been sure that the young man would never allow himself to trust others, to let down his guard in such a manner. He was pleased to see that he'd been wrong.

"Should I fetch him, Sir?" Pierre suggested, ready to wake Aramis.

Treville managed to grab the lad by his shirt before he could get any further. "No. Let him rest," he whispered, before quietly leaving the room. "He has earned it."

~§~

It didn't happen over one day. It didn't happened over a few weeks, either. But slowly, it did happen.

One day, René realized that the sound of clashing swords no longer set his limbs trembling and he found himself pulled towards the window, curious about seeing the other men training. He felt a different kind of tingling in his hands, watching them parry and block, swords dancing in the air with sparking stars bursting whenever they connected.

It took him a while to realize that his hands tingled in longing to hold a sword once again.

He found himself watching Athos from afar, amazed at the other man's skill with the sword. He moved as if arm and blade were one, dancing effortlessly through the air in precise and elegant movements that he had never seen before. Soon after, watching from the window was not enough and René moved closer, stepping onto the training yard, attracted to such display of skill like a moth to a bright light.

The rest was Porthos' fault, really. Since the dark day of the explosion, he had taken to keeping the young medic company whenever his training and missions would allow it, mostly distracting René from his duties as the big Musketeer shared wild stories about his youth. He never said where those tales had taken place - and many of them sounded too fantastic to have taken place at all - but under all the bluster and boasting, it soon became easy for René to understand that Porthos had not grown up in a pleasant or safe place. That he had met sorrow and pain at a much younger age than René.

One day, when Porthos casually challenged René to teach him how to shoot without looking, like he had seen him do the day of the explosion, he had found himself agreeing. The grin that spread across the big man's face warmed his heart and René figured that was a good feeling. One worth keeping.

After more than a few missed melons, as Porthos tried to shoot his target without looking, they found themselves being watched by Athos.

"May I try?"

Athos was as good at it as Porthos, which wasn't saying much. That day ended with all three men covered in sweat and gunpowder, too many melons intact and a promise from Athos to help the other two in bettering their skills with a sword.

"Well, then...I s'pose drinks are on me!" Porthos offered with an enthusiastic smile, one arm clasped over the shoulders of his two companions. "Seein' as I'm 'bout to become the best Musketeer this regiment has ever seen," he added with a smirk.

"And how do you figure that, Monsieur?" Athos asked, his eyebrow raising in amusement. It was a hard task to keep a grim disposition in the presence of Porthos.

"Easy...I've got meself Athos, a proper swords' master to teach me," he said, squeezing Athos' shoulder to the point the man feared the bone would shatter. "And I've got Aramis, the best marksman in the whol' of France, teachin' me how to kill melons!"

Porthos' good humor tapered away as he noticed what he had said. He opened his mouth to correct the name he had used, a name that had not slipped from his mouth ever since meeting René in the sick room.

The man in question halted him, a calm smile on his face. It was a startling contrast from the angst Porthos had witnessed before.

"I'll drink to that!" Aramis announced, sharing a look with Porthos to tell him that there was no harm.

Together, they stepped out of the garrison into the Paris night. It was a bit chilly, the beginnings of winter arriving, but Aramis felt none of it. The warmth of his new companions was enough to keep the ice at bay.

The end

~§~

* * *

AN: Well, folks, this is it. Thank you so much for joining me on this lovely journey and for welcoming me open-armed into this amazing fandom.

Once again, I give my deepest recognition for the help that laurie_bug, who so graciously helped me with this story.

As you may have noticed, this whole story, besides being an attempt at guessing how Athos, Aramis and Porthos met, is also a set-up of sorts to something else. A few questions were left unanswered on purpose, to be dealt with in the sequel. I'm already working on that one, so expect to hear from me soon ;)

One for all, dudes!


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